


A long way from home

by ButterflyGhost



Category: Smallville, due South
Genre: Crossover, Due South - Freeform, Superman - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-17
Updated: 2012-05-21
Packaged: 2017-11-05 13:12:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/406795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButterflyGhost/pseuds/ButterflyGhost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Yet another one which my son asked for. It appears that he was not satisfied with X-men, he wanted a Superman crossover. And I was happy enough to oblige, but it took a completely weird and wonderful turn, and ended up not at all as I'd expected it. Now that I've finished, I'm sure that he's going to be after me for not just Superman, but Lord of the Rings, the Fantastic Four, the Avenger's, anything by Anthony Horrowitz (except for Midsommer Murders) and Young Bond crossovers. </p><p>So, I may have to kill somebody. Or alternatively, keep on writing.</p></blockquote>





	1. twin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [My insanely twisted & weirdly gifted son](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=My+insanely+twisted+%26+weirdly+gifted+son).



It had taken them forever to track it down, but in the end the search was worth it. Clark stood staring at the computer screen, transfixed, while Chloe did her usual job of translating techno-babble into something he could understand.

“It seems that the meteor shower was scattered over more than space. It was scattered over time as well. At least one other capsule is reported to have landed somewhere on the American continent.”

“What do you mean scattered over time?”

“Well, this particular capsule landed in Canada, in the Yukon, in the early sixties...”

“The sixties?”

“Yes... and it seems that a child survived the transit. Was taken in and raised...”

“Like me.” It was a statement, not a question. Somehow Clark already knew the answer.

“Yes. Like you.”

“So... what happened to this child?”

“Well, he grew up, and... it seems he was exceptional.”

“Kryptonian exceptional?”

“Perhaps. He has a thirst for justice,” she smiled up at him. “Like you. Don't know if it's genetics or something. He joined the RCMP.”

“What, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police? Wouldn't they realise he was something odd?”

“Not necessarily. It seems he hasn't quite understood himself that he's something odd.”

“Can I see a picture of him?” He leaned over her, urgently, looking for something like a family.

“Yeah... give me a minute...”

The computer took a moment to spit up some pictures, and both Chloe and Clark caught their breath.

“Wow, he's seriously good looking.” Chloe had gone a little pink, and was sucking her lower lip.

“I was going to say he looks like me.”

She looked at him, flirted a smile, and nodded. “Agreed. He'd be the good looking twin.”

“So, what's he doing now?”

“I don't know... pursuing truth, justice and the Canadian Way.”

“I have to meet him,” Clark said. “I have to know...”

“If he's... I don't know, a fellow Kryptonian?" She laughed nervously and added, speculatively, "your brother?”

“Yes.” 

“You sure it's a good idea? I mean, he might turn out to be your evil nemesis.”

“You mean he might be the evil twin?”

“Yes, I suppose.”

“Have you thought I might be the evil twin?” He was only half joking.

She gazed at him, narrowly. “Yes,” she said, and turned back to the computer. “Frequently.”


	2. venom

Not again. Constable Moreau was shifting her stance, holding the piece of paper between two fingers, as thought it might suddenly burst into flames. Fraser sighed. He felt for her. That American journalist wasn't giving up. He looked across his desk at Moreau, and she shifted her gaze to her feet.

“I'm sorry, Sir, this Clark Kent is on the phone again. He's very persistent.”

“I don't do interviews,” Fraser shook his head, and stared down, resentfully, at the paperwork. The arrest of Muldoon had been high profile, higher than he'd expected, and even after several months hiatus, during which he and Ray had gone off in search of the hand of Franklin, there had still been reporters sniffing around when he got back, wanting an interview with him. He had refused to talk to them, but even so there were some horribly intrusive stories written about him, about the loss of his mother, and how, after thirty years, he had come to avenge her. That, of course, led, inevitably, to stories of his father's murder, and how he had tracked down his killers, bringing them to justice. Inevitably the exposure made others in the Force resent him, and despite his best efforts there had been whispers that he was inviting the attention. Even now, years after the event, some reporter or other often showed an unhealthy interest in Fraser's past. He was learning to deal with it. Or not deal with it. He had become surprisingly good at putting people off. Not quite rude, but not his normal courteous self. There was only so much press speculation a man could put up with, after all.

One of the best things about taking this posting was that it was far enough above the circle that even the most diligent of reporters eventually lost interest and left him alone. The worst thing, of course, was that, now he was a Sergeant, he spent more time behind a desk than he was used to. Managing a team, however small, was certainly within his skill set... but he preferred what he thought of as real police work, real life. Accordingly he arranged the work schedule so that, at least some of the time, he could be out there, maintaining the right, without being bound to his desk. At times it was an anchor, pulling him down. Some days he felt like he was drowning.

The young Constable remained standing, nervously looking at her shoes, and Fraser took pity on her. “So, how many times has this particular journalist called?”

“Every day, at least once. Sometimes more.”

“Have you explained that I don't do interviews?” Fraser had made his getaway a week earlier, and was only now returned, and catching up with scut work. He knew the answer though. He knew his team... of course they would have told the guy to back off. Had they been firm enough though? American journalists were hard to deal with... he knew this from experience. Perhaps the youngsters had been too polite. If this kept up, then he'd have to talk to the guy. Tell him to back off. Perhaps the guy would believe it coming from him, personally.

“He says he doesn't want to interview you for publication. It's something to do with another case, he doesn't want to quote you or anything.”

“It's got nothing to do with Muldoon?”

“No, Sir, he says it's got nothing to do with Muldoon, but that you can help him.”

Oh Lord, Fraser leant back on his chair. This guy wasn't going away. “Okay,” he conceded, and closed his eyes. “Next time he rings, put him through to me, I'll see if I can get him to back off.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Moreau radiated relief, and she smiled quickly, before she could stop herself. Another downside to the job, Fraser thought. Nobody could be relaxed around him. He had a new-found respect for Lieutenant Welsh, finally enjoying his well deserved retirement, all the way back in Chicago. 

It was only half an hour later that he found himself on the phone to said American reporter. The guy sounded flustered.

“Sergeant Benton Fraser?”

Good grief, he sounded like a kid. “Yes. And I assume I'm speaking with Clark Kent, of the Daily Planet?”

“Yes, yes Sir, I'm Clark Kent... I just want to assure you that I'm incredibly grateful for your agreeing to speak with me.”

“I'm hardly agreeing to speak with you. I'm sorry if I sound abrupt, but the only reason we're having any kind of a conversation is because I want to ask you to stop phoning. I have a job, and it takes up most of my time. And I simply can't afford to take time out for interviews...”

“Don't worry, Sir, this isn't an interview.”

Fraser crinkled his brow in puzzlement. “What is it then?”

“It's a conversation... I needed to ask you a couple of questions...”

“I don't talk about the Muldoon case.”

“No, no... it's nothing to do with Muldoon... I just wanted to ask you some questions about the circumstances surrounding your birth.”

“My... what?” Fraser found himself standing, pacing backward and forward, to the extent of the phone line, as though he were on a leash. 

“I mean... just, I know there was a meteor shower around the time of your birth. What do you know about it?”

Fraser found himself laughing, even though he wasn't quite sure it was funny. “I wasn't exactly in a position to form any impressions of the event. I was rather young at the time.”

“I mean, did your parents ever talk about it?”

“Not much.”

“So... what do you know of your birth?”

“I was born in a barn.” Fraser was getting annoyed now, but was mastering his temper. “Quite what relevance that could possibly have to any story you're working on is beyond me.”

“It's not a story... I'm not researching a story.”

“So, what are you doing?”

“I'm researching my family tree.”

Oh Lord, Fraser thought, not another sibling... first there was Maggie, and now this boy in America was making claims... just how busy had his father been? It hit him again, as it did so frequently, that he couldn't ask his father for clarification. At least he had moved beyond the borderlands, was finally at peace.

“Your family tree?” Fraser stopped in his pacing, and sat on the edge of his desk. 

“Yes... I'm trying to trace blood relatives.”

“You're telling me that you might be a Fraser?” 

“No... no. I'm wondering if you're a Kryptonian.”

“A... a what?”

“You don't know the term?”

“No.” Normally Fraser wouldn't be so abrupt, but this was an odd conversation. “No, I can safely say I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Okay... then can I ask, did you develop any strange abilities as you were growing up?”

Fraser's mouth dried. How could anyone possibly know...

“Hello, did you hear me?”

“I heard.”

“So, did you? Like enhanced strength, or speed, or healing?”

“Why are you asking me this?”

“It's important.”

“No. No, it really isn't.”

“Please, Sergeant Fraser, I need you to be honest about this...”

“Goodbye, young man. I won't be conducting any further interviews with you. Thank you kindly for your time.”

“One more thing...”

“What?” Good grief, he really was becoming curt, this kid was getting under his skin.

“My father... I don't know how to say this, my father haunts me.”

Fraser's voice stuttered, came out as a whisper. “Haunts you?”

“Yes... did you ever... have you ever...”

“Been haunted?”

“Yes.”

“I... don't know how to answer that.”

“He built a sort of, headquarters.”

Fraser, leant forward, hugging himself tightly with his free arm. Stupidly, the words blurted out. “What, in your closet?”

“Excuse me?” The young man sounded as confused as Fraser felt. “In the snow. In the far north.”

“In the north?”

“Yes... he called it his Fortress of Solitude.”

Fraser felt an uncontrollable laugh pushing up. His father was famous for maintaining not just the right, but his distance. “'Fortress of Solitude'... oh Lord, that sounds like somewhere my father would live.”

The boy picked up on it, on the slight hysteria. He pushed on, eagerly. “So, you know what I'm talking about?”

“No, no... A lot of people have fathers like that. Distant. It doesn't mean anything.”

“It does,” the boy sounded adamant. “It means everything. Does it call you?”

“What?”

“The North. The cold, the snow.”

Fraser was feeling dizzy now. He shook his head. “No,” he lied, “no... nothing calls me. I'm fine. My father is dead, he's at peace now. And there is no fortress. I'm not who you think I am. Don't call again.”

“I have to see you.”

“You won't.”

“Please...”

Fraser dropped the phone in its cradle, and stared at it, with a shudder, like it was a poisonous spider. He had the sudden painful need to leave the building. Wiping his hand on his trousers, to remove the stain of the phone call, he made his way through the little squad room. Moreau and Peterson looked up as he passed. He felt he should say something, but couldn't bring himself to say a word. He raised a hand in a gesture of acknowledgement and dismissal. He was feeling sick.

Leaning against the log cabin he stood in the fresh cold air, feeling the occasional sting of intermittent snow. He should have put on his greatcoat. But the snow, the cold, oh... the snow was a comfort.

Does it call him, the boy had asked, the North, the snow...

And all of a sudden, he's out there again, with Ray, seeking the Hand, and it doesn't even matter that they don't find it. They find themselves, each other. And the North, the North called...

Fortress of Solitude... No. Not any more. He wasn't alone, not any more.

'My father haunts me,' the boy had said.

No... no. No. Absolutely not. There was nothing in it. The kid was just a young, ambitious journalist, who was probably going to print some weird story, no matter what he said. He should never have taken that phone call.

He took a deep breath, and turned his back on the North. Did it call him? He stared in the opposite direction, to the South, to his old life...

And that's how he saw him arrive. A tiny dot in the distance burning a path through the snow. Growing with each impossible step, each impossible stride, into the figure of a man. His breath caught in his throat, and damn, damn it if it hadn't happened again. He'd gone crazy, again. A hole in his bag of marbles, again. Damn it, damn it... he'd lost it this time. He'd thought it was over. Thought this was over...

Right in front of him now, stood a young man, early twenties, maybe, earnest, eyes burning with urgency. And when he spoke, he recognised the boy's voice. Clark Kent. Who had just phoned him from America. Who was just now standing right in front of him. Impossible.

“I'm sorry,” the young man said, “I couldn't wait. I had to see you.”

“To see me?” His voice was vanishing.

“To see if you're like me...”

Fraser's knees went weak, and he turned his head. Closed his eyes, so as not to see this strange image, almost his mirror, his twin. If he had been what, twenty years younger, this young man could be his brother.

“Go away.” His voice was weak, and it was no surprise that the kid ignored the command. The boy stepped up to him, took his hand, squeezed. And oh, Lord, that hurt. Whatever it was, it pushed up through him, through the hands where the kid touched him, up through his veins, like venom.

“Please," the kid sounded desperate, "I need to talk to you.”

And oh Lord, God, the sickness, the sickness was growing stronger. The kid's proximity, like there was something in his presence, in his touch. Something about this kid... 

He was sick, dizzy. Around the edges of his vision the world was turning a queasy green, like the Northern lights, like a concussion, like a kick in the head.

“Don't touch,” he tried to say, but the kid was holding his hands and he... and he...

He was so sick. There was something, something in the kid, poison.

His legs folded, and he fell forward. He was almost grateful. He fell. Forward, down and away. Down into green darkness, into nausea and cold. And as he fell, someone grabbed him, someone with a cold and alien touch. Poison. He was caught by poison before he ever hit the snow.


	3. dusk in winter

Anne Moreau watched the Sergeant leave, covertly, hiding her face slightly behind her papers. She didn't want him to think she was being nosey, but she couldn't help but wonder. What on earth did that American reporter want with the boss? She knew that Fraser was some kind of a legend, though why he chose to bury himself up here she couldn't imagine. She understood that occasionally some exploit of his, either past or present, would stir interest amongst journalists. But Clark Kent, whoever he was, didn't sound like a regular reporter. For a start he hadn't been obsequious and deferential. He'd sounded urgent, almost desperate in fact. Increasingly so each time she rebuffed him. The Sergeant isn't here. No, I don't know when he'll be back. The Sergeant is busy. The Sergeant doesn't give interviews... and his palpable relief when she finally said, “the Sergeant has a few free moments, he will talk to you now.”

No, Clark Kent hadn't sounded like a journalist at all. In fact, if she hadn't checked his credentials and realised he really did work for a newspaper, she might have thought he was one of the groupies who, for some reason, had attached themselves to her boss over the years. Who would have thought, she pondered, a police man having groupies. And a police man who avoided publicity with such rigour as the Sergeant did. He didn't deserve it, she thought, the low rumbling concern that somebody might intrude into his space. Oh, it didn't happen often, or so she'd been told. But there had been incidents over the years of 'bunny boilers' turning up. No, it wasn't fair. Perhaps that was why he buried himself up here. Though sometimes she caught his expression, as he stared at the sky, and she thought perhaps it was more than that. This wasn't a self imposed exile. This was home.

For her, of course, it was exile. If they'd sent her any further north she'd have been heading south. At first she had expected the Sergeant to be as distrustful of her as everyone else in the RCMP had been since her foray into whistle blowing. Despite her reservations, he'd been completely fair. At first she had been anxious, waiting for the other shoe to drop, but finally she got around to reading his file. (It had been a slow week.) And she realised then that if anyone knew what it was like to be ostracised for holding a principle, it was her new boss. From that point on she relaxed, and almost grew attached to the post. Almost.

Peterson didn't make matters any easier. He very obviously resented his posting, and did everything he could to undermine both her and the boss. Fortunately, he wasn't very subtle. Fraser, on the other hand was. Somehow Peterson always ended up doing just what the Sergeant required of him, and was frequently bewildered by it, not quite sure how he'd been manoeuvred into doing his job. Anne liked that about her boss. He seemed very mild, absent and professorial somehow, but actually, he was sharp as a blade. Sometimes that peeked through, and it fascinated her. Not that she was attracted to him... though she could see how people were. But he was by far and away the most interesting person she had ever worked for.

No wonder the journalists were after him. 

But this Clark Kent... no, she didn't know what to make of him.

Peterson looked up as the Sergeant entered the room from his office, and made an obsequious gesture as he passed. Once the door was shut he started carping. “I don't know why he has to be so high and mighty. It doesn't make him special that journalists are after him.” He sniffed. “And he swanned off for a week, leaving us to do all the work.”

“Did you really want to do the outdoor work this last week? The weather's been frightful, and you know the winter's closing in. He did us a favour.” Not to mention the tourists who had got themselves trapped on a drifting ice floe. But that was another matter. She was sure that neither she nor Peterson would have had an idea what to do. Oh, they'd have called out for rescue helicopters and so on, but extra hours on the ice could have killed somebody. Sergeant Fraser got them all safely to land, built shelter, treated them for cold and shock. By the time the rescue team had turned up, the little group were sitting cuddled up and warm together, learning to appreciate the finer points of bark tea, pemmican, and folk songs. The head of the rescue team had called in to RCMP headquarters, suggesting a commendation for Fraser, stating that, given the severe weather conditions, he had been expecting frostbite to have claimed at least several digits... toes or fingers. Everyone returned intact, if rather more respectful of nature's force.

Peterson was still scowling. “Yeah, well, maybe I didn't want to go out in that, but still he should have consulted us.”

“He does consult us, more than he should really. I mean, he is the boss, after all.”

Peterson snorted, and carried on scratching his pen across the form. “I've got nothing but paperwork.”

“We've all got paperwork.”

“I didn't become a Mountie for this.”

Anne sighed, and decided to stop talking to the man. Sometimes, of course, she got so lonely that she had to talk to someone. Peterson usually cured her of the desire to talk, however. When she got home that night she was going to curl up, watch some television, if the reception held up, drink cocoa, and phone her mother. 

Silence descended on the little room while she and Peterson filled out their daily forms. Not a comfortable silence... it was never that where Peterson was concerned. But a natural silence. One they were both used to. So, when the voices began they both started in their seats, and stared at the window. It was heavily frosted, and they could barely see out of it... but...

“Is there someone out there,” she asked, before she could stop herself.

“I don't know... sounds like it.”

“I didn't hear a vehicle.”

“Perhaps they used a dog sled.”

“I didn't hear dogs.” She listened. “I don't hear dogs...”

“No,” he agreed, and stood, moving to the window. “Sounds like an American.”

She rose to her feet. Something in the tone of the conversation sounded wrong. The Sergeant sounded alarmed.

“There's something not right,” she said, her instincts kicking in. Then she realised what it was. The American voice wasn't just American, it was familiar. “It's that damned journalist,” she said, feeling her fists clenching by her sides. “Clark Kent.”

“You're kidding!” Peterson was grinning, like a kid at school watching someone else pulling the legs off a fly. “Hey, you said he was persistent.”

“This isn't funny.” She marched to the door, and flung it open. 

The dusk was settling in early, as it always did. They'd got to the stage of winter when daylight lasted a little under three hours. Before long they would be living through one long night, with no more than moments of grey dawn lining the horizon. She hated it. Her eyes had not yet adjusted. 

Standing outside was a young man, dressed entirely inappropriately for the weather, kneeling in the snow. She followed his gaze, and flinched. The Sergeant was lying in the snow, and, as far as she could tell in this light, as grey as the sunset. The young man was holding his hands, looking lost.

“What have you done,” she snapped, and barged past him, breaking his grip on the boss's hands. 

“I haven't done anything...”

“Sergeant, Sergeant Fraser,” she said, knelt down, and patted his cheeks. They were cold and clammy, but of course that could just be the weather. He groaned, and opened his eyes. “Are you all right?”

He shook his head, and tried to sit up. The young man put his arm behind him to support him. The Sergeant's eyes rolled back in his head, and he went slack again. She glared at the American. She'd give him the benefit of the doubt. “We need to get him inside.” The man nodded, then to her surprise stood, hoisting the Sergeant effortlessly over his shoulder. She looked at him dubiously, then stepped inside the log station house. Peterson was standing, smiling slightly, but made no offer to help. She glared at him, and walked to the cell. “I'm afraid this is our only cot,” she said. “You'd better let him lie down.” The American nodded, and obeyed. She shook out a blanket over the Sergeant, then knelt, taking his pulse. To her surprise it was faster than usual, not slower, as she would have expected in a faint. And despite his paleness, the chill was disappearing. He was beginning to burn hot. She glared at the journalist. “Get me some water,” she said. “The cooler's in the main room.” Again, he moved quickly and obediently, then stood watching as she lifted the Sergeant's head, and gently tilted water past his lips. The Sergeant coughed, and started to drink. Finally he opened his eyes. He took in his surroundings, then fastened his gaze upon the guest. He closed his eyes tiredly, then opened them again. 

“Still here,” he said, so seriously that at first Anne didn't realise he was probably joking. “I thought I'd imagined you.” He looked across at Anne, and raised his eyebrows. “Do you see him?”

She smiled at his return to humour. “Yes, Sir, I do see him.”

“Ask him how he got here.”

“How did you...”

“I came by vehicle,” the man said, vaguely. “And I decided to hike some of the way.”

She stared at him incredulously. “Dressed like that? It's at least thirty below outside!”

“Uhm...” the man looked shifty. 

She shrugged. She was sure there was some reasonable explanation, but damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of appearing interested. She turned her attention, instead, to the Sergeant. “Are you okay, Sir?”

“I'll be fine. Just... give me a minute.” He sat up on the edge of the cot, leaned his head onto his hands, and took a few deep breaths. The American took a step closer. The Sergeant sat up abruptly, ramrod straight and fierce. “Step back. Don't come near me.” The American caught his breath, and stepped back.

“Sir,” she felt her brow crease with confusion. “Are you... did he...” Did this American hurt the boss? She turned now and glared at the man. “What did you do?”

“Nothing,” he held his hands up, “I swear, nothing... I just came to talk.”

“And how the hell did you get through anyway,” she said. “Reception's pretty bad for cell phones up here.”

“New American model,” he said, “for work.”

She folded her arms across her chest. “Why do you look like you're lying?”

“Constable Moreau,” the Sergeant sounded tired. “Don't worry. The young man hasn't deliberately harmed me. And I'm sure that he has no problem with reception for his cell phone either. He just came to ask a few questions. He'll be going home soon.”

The young man stiffened, and looked belligerent. “I'm not going home until I've had a chance to really talk.”

“Well, I'm not talking now,” the Sergeant sounded uncharacteristically frosty. “I'm not feeling well. Constable,” he addressed Anne again. “Do you mind taking over for me? I need to take leave for the rest of my shift, I'm sorry.”

“That's fine, Sir,” she said, still concerned. “But there's nobody to look after you, is there?” The Sergeant's friend Ray had already left for the winter. Apparently he had tried to stick out a few when he was first in Canada, but it hadn't worked out. Some people simply couldn't take the winters. The darkness and the cold seeped into your soul, if you let it. She could understand him not being able to stay. He was a brisk, cheerful man, all summer, all energy and quick wit, and laughter. He brought out the same in the Sergeant. But the nearer winter came the more he curled in on himself, like it hurt him in his bones. And so, like some birds, he migrated annually. And Fraser worked even harder, until his friend returned with the spring. 

Well, it worked for them, she supposed. She'd never asked either man about the status of their relationship, but one thing she did know was that the Sergeant was happier when spring dawned, and it wasn't just the return of the sun.

The Sergeant stood. “Thank you, Constable,” he addressed her concerns gravely. “I'll be fine. I just need to lie down.”

“What about this... journalist? He's got to stay somewhere.”

“Does he?” The Sergeant actually sounded a bit confused. “Well, there are some people locally you could ask.”

Locally of course meant anywhere within a hundred mile radius. 

“He's not staying with me,” she declared.

“Or me,” Peterson added, finally showing his face.

“I could stay here,” the American offered.

“Oh Lord,” the Sergeant shook his head. “Just what we need, a journalist hanging around checking out the contents of our filing cabinet the moment anyone relaxes their guard.”

“I told you, I am not interested in a news story.”

“Well, you came a long way for nothing, Son,” the Sergeant said, and pushed his way out of the holding cell. 

“Son,” Peterson said, slyly, looking from the Sergeant to the American. Anne blinked at the suddenness of the suspicion which crossed her mind. The younger man did in fact look very like...

No, the Sergeant wouldn't treat a child of his like that. But still...

“Are you two related?” Peterson was grinning as though he was watching a talk show, the kind where the guests end up fighting on stage, or collapse weeping in huddles of cheesy, made for camera only reconciliation. She could have hit him.

The Sergeant blanked him, and bustled into his snow shoes, hunching himself into his great coat, and fastening his hat securely to his head. This, in itself, was astonishing. He never took a sick day. “I'll see you tomorrow,” he said, as he pulled on his gloves, “if I'm well enough. I'm sure that Mr Kent will be able to sort out some accommodation.”

It wasn't at all like the Sergeant not to offer hospitality, Anne thought. This was a day of firsts. She shook her head as she watched him go. Then she turned her suspicious gaze back to Clark Kent. Why was the boss so uneasy around him? What on earth had this man done?


	4. packing

As first meetings went, this hadn't been a success. For a start, he hadn't expected the man to actually see him arrive. He was, after all, the Blur. Clark had been running at speed for so long now that he took it for granted that the human eye wouldn't see him. Even cameras didn't spot him, unless they were very high tech. But this man... this man had definitely seen him arrive. Clark could see it in his eyes, even before they'd said a word. 

Not that it mattered. He had always intended to be as honest with this man as he could. He felt... he was almost certain, that the Mountie, this Benton Fraser, was like him. 

But it hadn't worked out. He didn't know what he'd hoped for, but it hadn't been the man turning faint and falling at his feet. As though when he touched him he'd infected him, somehow. He wondered, for a moment, if that was what he looked like when he came too near Kryptonite. There was something in the man's face that looked familiar. Not just his features. Something else. Clark felt his lip curl, slightly disgusted by the train his thoughts were taking. The man looked sickened, as though Clark was the problem. And his curt commands, 'don't touch... don't come near me.' The almost invisible flinch. Clark had come to find family, and instead he found a man who felt physically ill in his mere presence. How had that happened?

The female Mountie was working briskly, ignoring him. She had gone back on her original decision, and agreed, reluctantly, to allow him to stay at her place, so long as he stayed in the shed with the dogs. It wasn't the most generous invitation he'd ever had, but he supposed he could understand her reluctance. After all, she obviously respected her Sergeant like a father. And therefore distrusted him. Besides, he'd prefer to stay with her, someone who was obviously hard working and honest, than with her sullen colleague. Clark realised, however, that he really would have to provide some explanation for his arrival. To be honest, he hadn't considered how ridiculously naked he would look in this environment, dressed in jeans, red flannel shirt, leather jacket. And she wasn't stupid, she'd be asking where his “vehicle” was. He'd have to think of something.

“I just need to step out a moment,” he stated. The atmosphere in the room was chilly, not from the outside weather. Both constables ignored his comment, and kept on working. He nodded to himself and stepped out.

Five minutes later he was making his way up the stairs to his apartment. He'd have to pack something, to make his appearance up North appear credible... what did he have that might be suited to such extreme cold? He flung open his closet and drawers, and zipped round his bedroom at speed, packing socks, walking boots, and an absolutely awful anorak that Lois had bought him as a joke, 'anorak' apparently being a British term for a nerd. He smiled, and shook his head, thinking of her. What else might a normal person bring up to the Arctic circle? Oh yes, woollens, thick socks... His mother, at least, provided him with such every Christmas. Finally, he would get some use out of them, if only as stage dressing.

He slung his bag over his shoulder, and was about to make his getaway when he heard footsteps climbing the stairs. High heels, purposeful... he smelled her fragrance, both the artificial one she favoured from perfumeries, and her natural smell, warmer and more subtle. Lois. He blushed. He had no idea if she ever harboured thoughts of him, as he did of her, whether they could ever be together. But he did know she cared. And he didn't want her knowing what he was up to... she couldn't know. She just knew him as Smallville. A hick farmer's son. He couldn't explain any of this to her... he didn't want to risk what friendship they had. People tended to react badly when they found him out. Friends like Chloe were an exception. Most people flinched, treated him as a thing, something sick, and strange, and to be feared.

It hit him again, painfully. He'd not expected the Mountie to treat him like that. And yet he had. He'd flinched, he'd paled, he'd even collapsed. And for the life of him, Clark couldn't figure out why. 

Lois was at the door, tapping. He shut his eyes, rather than using his x ray vision. Imagined her long fingers, her tapering nails dancing across the wood. No, he couldn't confide in her... He turned to his bedroom window, slipped the latch, and climbed out. Dropping to the ground he heard the door open, as Lois, predictably, picked the lock and let herself in. Despite himself he laughed at her audacity. Then he turned back north, and ran. So fast that the world blurred around him. Solid objects stretched and rippled as he passed them, sound fled away, then bounced back, a thousand voices around him battling to be heard. He focussed on breath, and footfall, and avoiding collisions. 

By the time he'd arrived back at the little log station house only twelve minutes had passed. Somewhere in Metropolis Lois would be searching for him. Here he was invisible. Being ignored. They hadn't even noticed that he was gone.

It suited him fine. 

He stepped back into the little warm room, and the female Constable looked up, suspiciously. He smiled. “Do you mind if I make some coffee?”

“Knock yourself out.” She returned to her papers. “We'll be off in half an hour anyway.”

Peterson was still smirking. Clark didn't like him, and gathered that he wasn't alone in his appraisal of the man's character. He set about making coffee. At least he was good for that.  
…

Even as he made his way home, Fraser was aware that he was over reacting. The sickness he had felt when that boy took his hand had completely overwhelmed him. It was like nothing he'd ever experienced before... as though he was extruding his guts out through his abdomen, like a spider dragging out her silk. A horrid sensation, one he could never have imagined, but, having once experienced, could never now forget. 

But now that he was walking home the feeling started to fade, slowly, but just a little bit more with each step.

A suspicion formed in his mind. He turned and started walking back toward the station house.

The nausea began to claw its way back.

Good Lord, he thought, turning back to home again. That poor boy... did he have this affect on a lot of people? If so, it must make for a very lonely life...

Finally he had reached the kennel that adjoined his little log cabin. The dogs wuffled at him, wagging their tails, and he smiled, stooped and caressed their heads. As usual, Alwyn made the most fuss of him, looking painfully like her grandsire, Diefenbaker. He buried his fingers in her ruff, and kissed her nose. She licked all over his face, and he smiled. He knew he was playing favourites, but he couldn't help it. She reminded him so much of Dief.

Even feeling the residue of illness he still had duties to perform for the dogs. He fed them, let them loose for a run around, cleared the poop and stale hay from their run, refreshed their water, checked the timer on the heat lamp, finally scattered fresh hay. By the time he was done the nausea was nearly all gone. Really... he was being ridiculous. He should just go back to work, finish what he'd started...

The thought of stepping back into proximity with that young American caused another surge of nausea. Good Lord, he thought, clutching his stomach, what was this? There was nothing wrong with the boy, after all. 

Or, perhaps there was. After all, the way he appeared, the way he ran. Fraser had gazed across the blistering white landscape and seen a dark line burned through it, where the snow had melted beneath the runner's feet. That wasn't normal. 

No... there was something there, something that twisted away in his gut and made him miserable. The questions... meteor showers, had he noticed any unusual abilities as he was growing up...

Fraser closed his eyes, and stilled his thoughts. It was a long time ago, and he'd brought his senses back into line with reality. There had been a time when the world was so loud he hadn't been able to stand it, when he'd run away just to be far from the sounds of other people talking, whispering, arguing behind walls. He couldn't be in a town, a village even. Too many voices. He'd thought he was going mad. But he sat on it, and it receded. The same with sight, with sound, with touch. Yes, his hearing was far better than the norm. Yes, he could track an individual dog by the scent of its urine. Yes, when he saw a page of writing it stayed in his memory like a photograph. But what this had to do with the young American he couldn't figure out. How could he have known, and what business was it of his anyway? Fraser had managed to forget that particular torment of his teenage years... for decades. And now this kid turned up, stirring up old memories, and all of a sudden everything was very loud to him again... the dogs pushing up against each other, the intolerably soft rustle of their fur, and oh Lord, no, the creep of little creatures under the struts of the cabin.

He shouldn't be hearing this. How had he learned to switch it off? He couldn't remember.

And then, just as he was sitting with his fingers in his ears, humming, that impossibly rapid footfall came sweeping to the house, and the gut jerking nausea with it. The boy was coming.

Fraser sat up, determined not to seem unkind. Poor kid... whatever his problem was, he'd come a long way.

He felt cold sweat pooling on his skin, although he was burning with heat. He gritted his teeth, and made his unsteady way to the door. Opening it, there he was. Clark. The boy smelled of huskies... Constable Moreau's huskies, to be precise. Obviously she had extended a bare minimum of hospitality. Fraser felt guilty. He shouldn't have put a female member of staff in a position where she had to house a stranger. He'd call her, he thought, tell her that the stranger could stay with him. Perhaps sleep with his dogs instead.

Even if the kid did knock him sick.

“You might as well come in,” he finally conceded, and swallowed his bile. He stood aside and gestured for Clark to enter. The boy shifted uncertainly on his feet, rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb, and stepped in.


	5. born in a barn

“First things first,” Fraser said, “I should phone the Constable and tell her that you've decided to stay here the night. Really,” he shook his head at his lack of insight, “I shouldn't have put her in such a position.”

“I'm not a monster, you know,” the young man said defensively.

“I wasn't suggesting that you were,” Fraser replied, as mildly as he could. He could see how such a suggestion would offend his guest, under the odd circumstances. Because the boy might not be a monster... but he was something else.

“All right, she'll be glad to see the back of me anyway," the lad conceded, "but, won't she wonder how I got here?”

“You used your snowmobile,” Fraser suggested, quirking a smile.

“My... what? Oh... yes. That will do.”

“Put the kettle on,” he added, “I'll make the call.”

He felt even more guilty after speaking to Constable Moreau. It was obvious that she had been very uncomfortable about her would be house guest. It would have been far more suitable for Peterson to offer the visitor accommodation, but Peterson was never one to put himself out. Fraser scratched the back of his neck, considering his lack of fortune in having such an unhelpful member of staff on his team. It was obvious that he had been sent here to the frozen ends of the earth as a punishment... but unlike Moreau he had not been standing up for any principles, other than, perhaps, his deeply seated belief that the world owed him a living. 

Still... he should stop procrastinating. The situation with Moreau had been rectified, and Peterson had no relevance to the current case. Replacing the phone on its hook he turned toward the kitchen, where his guest, this Clark Kent, was trying to figure out the best way to boil a kettle on a wood burning stove. He sighed. “Let me do that,” he said, moving into the kitchen.

Too quickly as it happened. The nausea hooked back into him, and he doubled over, groaning despite himself. The young man reached automatically to offer an arm, and he flinched backward so swiftly and violently that he almost fell. Blinking against the bright wash of green that had overcome him he saw the expression on Clark's face. Wounded. A surge of grief rose in him, sorrow for the young man, and he steadied himself against the wall.

“I'm sorry,” he managed to say, “I don't know what's happening. I don't mean to be offensive...”

“No, no, of course not,” Clark sounded bitter... and who could blame him? “Seems I'm the offensive one, I can't come near you.”

“I don't... I don't know what that's about, I'm sorry.” Fraser suddenly remembered his reaction earlier, his rudeness to the young man. He could justify it by considering that he had been shocked, both by the nature of Clark's arrival, and the suddenness of his symptoms, but really, he had no excuse to make the youngster feel unwelcome, even if he was an intrusive journalist. It was no way to treat another human being.

“Have you ever... have you ever felt this way before?”

“This way? No,” Fraser shook his head. “I've been sick, of course, like anyone else, but this is different.”

“Can you say what it's like?” The kid looked embarrassed, but soldiered on anyway. “I mean, it might be important.”

“It's like...” his voice trailed off. How could he put this? The kid was right, this felt important. He closed his eyes, still fighting the nausea, and thought. He had to be able to describe this. Slowly he started to speak. “It's like I'm being turned inside out,” he said, painfully, “like I'm trying to vomit myself up. Everything goes far away and too close, and all the colours disappear, there's only green.”

“Green?”

Fraser nodded, then brought his hand to his mouth. “Oh dear,” he said, and felt himself sliding down the wall. Merely describing the symptoms had made them worse. Breathe, he thought, keep breathing. He struggled, and felt the nausea... not receding, but coming under control. “I need a chair,” he said, and pulled himself along the furniture till he could sit down. “Again, I'm sorry.”

“No,” the boy walked as far away as he could in the little cabin. “I'm sorry... I just, never thought it would be like this.”

“Thought what would be like this?”

“Meeting someone else like me.”

“What do you mean, someone else like you?” Fraser leant his head against his knuckles, elbows propped up on the table. Oh dear, he was being rude again.

“Someone else... someone alien.”

Ah. That he hadn't expected...

“Do you mean metaphorically,” he asked wearily, then waxed lyrical, as much to stall for time as anything. He continued, “by which I mean, we are all wanderers through life, sojourners in a strange landscape we cannot predict, trying to find our way home?”

“Uhm... no.” The kid blinked, apparently puzzled by Fraser's foray into purple prose. “I mean as in, I'm an alien, and I'm pretty sure you are too.”

“You mean a literal alien?”

“Yes. I fell from outer space.”

“Ah.” He had been afraid of something like that. For a moment the sickness surged back viciously, and he breathed in sharply, dropping his head onto the cool wooden table top. Breathe, he reminded himself, breathe... Steeling himself he sat back up, and looked at the kid. He managed to fix a smile on his features. He wasn't sure it was his best smile, but Clark looked like he needed reassurance. “Most people I know wouldn't countenance such an idea. However, I do have some experience of the world being... well, stranger than it seems at first glance.”

“You mean you've had cause to think you're an alien?”

Despite himself, he laughed, then hugged his abdomen tight, regretting it. “No, oh dear, no. Although others have suggested it.” He caught the sharpening interest on Clark's face, and groaned, shaking his head. “Not literally. As a joke.”

“Oh.” The kid looked disappointed. “So, you never had any questions about where you came from?”

“I came from my mother and father. I already told you, I was born in a barn.”

“Are you sure?” Clark sounded like he was grasping at straws. “I mean, could they have made up a story so you didn't know you were adopted?”

“Believe me, my parents wouldn't lie to me. Well, my mother wouldn't. Nor would my grandparents...”

“But you're not so sure about your Dad?”

“He'd never tell a direct lie.” He sighed, remembering all the secrets Bob Fraser had kept from him. “However, he might neglect to tell an inconvenient truth. But all things considered, no. My family would not have lied.”

“But, there was a meteor shower around the time of your birth.”

“Apparently so. What relevance does that have?”

“I came to earth in a meteor shower. My human parents found me in a field, adopted me...”

“I see. And did you always know this?”

“I always knew I was different. And... that sickness you get? I get that too...”

“Around certain people?”

“I used to think so... there was a girl, Lana Lane... but it wasn't her. It was a bit of meteor rock she wore on a pendant around her neck.”

“One of the meteor rocks you fell to earth with?”

“Yes.”

“So, why would that rock make you feel sick?”

“Apparently it's the irradiated remnant of my home planet. It's called Kryptonite.”

“Your planet was called Krypton, I take it?”

“Yes. And... there are so many similarities between us, I can't believe that you're not also a Kryptonian.”

“I'm a Canadian.”

“You could be both. You were adopted here.”

“I was born here,” Fraser insisted. 

“But then, why are you like you are?”

“Like what?”

“I've read up on you. You've survived things that should have killed you fifty times over...”

“I must be lucky.”

“It's more than luck.”

“Well, whatever it is, it's not alien.”

Clark glared, and took three swift steps nearer. “See,” he snapped, as Fraser scraped his chair back, clutching his belly. “That's not how humans react to me.”

“Is it how Kryptonians react to you?”

“I don't know,” his face stretched in misery. “I don't have much experience with my own kind.”

“I'm sorry,” Fraser said again, pushing the chair back further, not even conscious of the movement. “It must be lonely.”

“Lonely? Look where you live? Why do you choose to live like this? All alone?”

“I'm not alone. I have a partner...”

“Well, where is she?”

“He,” Fraser stated baldly, “is visiting his family, as he always does this time of year.” The kid blinked, and walked back to the far wall. Fraser sat up straight again. 

“We need to get to the bottom of this. You said something about your father having a headquarters.”

“Yes... we could visit him, perhaps?”

“How would we get there?”

“Well, normally I'd run... how fast do you run?”

Fraser smiled wearily. “Not as fast as you, Son, like I say. I'm only human.”

“Will you come?”

“How far is it?”

“Too far to travel by normal means. It's not... it's not easy to locate.”

“So how would I get there?” 

“I'd have to carry you.”

Fraser stood, abruptly, and the chair tipped to the floor with a dull thud. “Absolutely not.”

“It's the only way.”

“I think you'd kill me.”

“If I thought you were in any danger I'd bring you back...”

“Argh,” Fraser let out an involuntary noise, and raised his hands to cover his face. He was curious, very curious, but still... to let that kid touch him... 

Oh, dammit. He wasn't about to let an unfortunate fact of his biology get in the way of knowledge. “All right, all right... just let me compose myself...” The kid stood silent, hopeful. Fraser held himself together, counted breath, lowered his heart rate, his blood pressure...

“You see,” Clark said, “I can hear what you're doing. Most people can't do that.”

“It's just meditation,” Fraser said, vaguely, tuning pain out. “It's hard, the mice are too loud.”

“You hear the mice?”

“Apparently I've always heard them. Your arrival just reminded me of the fact.”

“You see, your hearing is superhuman...”

“No, just at the top end of human potential...”

“Are you sure of that?”

Fraser wasn't sure of anything any more, but didn't say so. He'd done as much as he could to prepare for the journey. “Okay, let me wrap up warm.”

Clark grinned then, and Fraser, despite the clawing illness which persisted, despite his best efforts, found himself smiling back. If nothing else, the kid had made things interesting. Fraser shrugged himself into his winter furs. He squared his shoulders, braced himself, and turned to his visitor.

“All right then. Let's go.”


	6. info dump

Anne was worried. She'd turned up for work a few minutes early, relieving a very irritated Peterson. “I'm putting in a complaint,” he said. “If I've got to do overtime, he should call and let me know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Sergeant Benton Fraser,” the man said with a sneer. “Thinks he's too good to let me know he's coming in late.”

“Why didn't you call me?”

Peterson curled his lip. She shook her head at herself. Silly question. The man would sooner have an excuse to grizzle and complain than almost anything else. He regularly put in complaints, both about her and the boss... for the most trivial of reasons. It didn't make him popular with headquarters, who recognised his nitpicking for what it was... but it was as though the man couldn't help himself. He was born to be a whinger, a snitch. There was nothing up here for him to snitch about, but the habit was engrained. Every week brought some fresh complaint. As if that weren't bad enough, he hadn't forged any connections with the local community, having little, therefore, to do with his spare time. In fact, he probably enjoyed getting his overtime on something as easy as the night shift. She glanced at the cot, and rolled her eyes. She had made it up neatly after the Sergeant had gone the previous day. It had obviously been slept in since then. Peterson had left the pillow and the heavy blankets crumpled up, almost flagrant in his disregard for protocol. He had probably been hoping the boss would come in and chew him out. He thrived on confrontation and argument. Pity for him then, that the boss was schooled in the art of diffusing conflict. Sergeant Fraser managed to put Peterson in his place so placidly that it stung more than if he had been punished outright. She'd love to know how the boss did it.

That wasn't the point though. The point was that Peterson, the idiotic man, should have called her. “Did you phone the Sergeant?”

“Why? It's not my position to tell him to do his job.”

She could have smacked him, and for once snapped she was so angry. “You stupid man, didn't you think he might be ill? You saw him yesterday. He wasn't well at all.”

“Oh,” Peterson looked deflated, disappointed that the Sergeant might have a legitimate reason to be late. If so, he wouldn't be able to put in the complaint that he had, no doubt, already typed up.

“No, you didn't think... did you?”

“Where's your new boyfriend,” he sniped at her, trying to divert her attention, and perhaps drag her into a real argument.

“Oh Lord,” she stared at the wall. What did she really know about the American? “He left to stay with the Sergeant.”

“Did he get there?” For once Peterson asked a sensible question.

“Yes, the Sergeant phoned, about nine o'clock to say he'd arrived...”

“And nobody's heard from either of them since?”

“Not that I know.”

“Well,” Peterson stood up reluctantly. “I suppose we should phone the Sergeant, and if there's no answer one of us had better go check everything's okay.”

She nodded, curtly, and dialled the Sergeant's number.

There was no answer.  
…

Half an hour later she and Peterson were standing outside the Sergeant's cabin. It had taken ten minutes for the Special Constable to arrive and take over for them. They only hoped that they were overreacting to the Sergeant's lack of communication. Even Peterson had dropped the hostile attitude, and was looking nervous. 

The dogs were barking, and close inspection showed that, although the shed was warm (the ultraviolet heat light had done a good job) and there was plenty of water, they hadn't been fed since the previous night. That was not at all like the Sergeant. “Could you feed the dogs while I check round the back,” Anne suggested. Again, uncharacteristically, Peterson complied without complaint. 

Around the back was a set of very peculiar... well, not tracks, necessarily, but impressions in the snow. It was almost as though the snow were butter, and a hot knife had been dragged across the surface. When she was a girl Anne had visited America with her grandfather, and he had shown her the distinctive tracks that snakes made in the desert sand. This looked almost like that... but too thick to be a snake, and dimpled strangely, almost as though a giant ballerina had danced tiptoe along the track.

She could make no sense of it. The American had said he had a vehicle, but this corresponded to no tyre tracks that she had ever seen. Circling the cabin she noticed a similar set of tracks approaching from the other direction... with a sudden sense of panic she realised that she had seen similar marks in the snow before, and thought nothing of it. Tracks coming from the south to the station house, tracks around her dogshed when she fed them this morning.

How could she have missed that? This was something to do with the American. She couldn't put her finger on what made her so sure, and she could never have explained her suspicion in a court of law, but she was certain, gut sure, that the tracks were somehow his. Perhaps he had some new kind of vehicle... she remembered the man saying that he had a special cell phone, remembered his shiftiness when he mentioned his vehicle, considered the fact that she hadn't seen the damned thing... Military? She looked at the impossible tracks and wondered. The Sergeant had been involved in a lot of strange things over his career, some of which were top secret. Was the arrival of the American connected to some mission?

Stop it, she thought, just stop it, it's fruitless to speculate. All she could tell from the tracks was that something strange had been at the cabin yesterday. The fact that the dogs hadn't been fed suggested that the Sergeant was either not well, or absent.

And why hadn't she knocked on the door yet? Was she really so afraid of what she might find?

Yes, yes, she was afraid. She closed her eyes, swallowed against her superstitious dread (and where was that coming from? She was anything but irrational, never believed in hunches) and banged on the door. No response. Behind her she heard the whispered tramp of Peterson's feet crunching through the snow. She stood aside, let him come up next to her. “No answer,” she said.

“Shit,” he replied, looking genuinely concerned. For a moment she softened a little toward him, thinking he was concerned for the boss. Then she remembered that he hadn't checked in on him when he was late for work, that he had been busy writing up a formal complaint instead of making sure he was all right. He had screwed up, and was probably scared witless... for himself. 

Perhaps she was being unfair, she told herself, as she knocked again. Still no answer. “Did you remember to bring his key,” she asked.

“Damn...” the man glared at her. “You forgot it too.”

She sighed. “No point blaming each other.” She fiddled around with her own bunch of keys, and pulled out her yale blank. The Sergeant had shown her how to use it when she first arrived, providing her with several dozen loose locks on which to practise. She could now break into any house with a yale lock. He had been teaching her other lock picking techniques in her spare time. Obviously, however, he hadn't been teaching Peterson anything of the sort. The man stood glaring at her enviously as she picked the lock. “We're in,” she said, redundantly, as she pushed the door open.

And the cabin was empty as a hatched egg. It was small (she'd never been in before, and hadn't realised how small) but would have been cosy, if the wood burner hadn't gone out. It was compact and organised, as you'd expect of the Sergeant, but had plenty of homey touches, friendly and quirky, as you'd expect of his friend. 

Peterson was in the bedroom, and snorted with laughter. “I thought so,” he said. 

“What,” she asked, walking in sharply, “have you found something?”

“Just what I guessed all along. Him and that Kowalski of his... I mean look at it, one bed.”

“Prick,” she said, and left the room. For all she knew the Sergeant slept on the floor. And whose business was it anyway? She looked around one last time. Her heart sank. That was it. They'd seen the whole place, and apart from the wooden chair lying on the floor, and the strange snake like track outside, there wasn't a clue to be had. There was no choice now, they'd have to call for back up. The Sergeant was gone, and there was no way of knowing where the hell he was.  
…

It was just as horrible and ugly and wrenching as he'd feared. They'd made their way to the back of his cabin, and Clark had stood at a careful distance, waiting again for him to steady himself. 

“Ready,” the kid had said, half way between a request and a demand.

He had nodded. The best thing to do would be to get it out of the way quickly... “Now,” he'd said, and braced himself.

And with a virulent, odious surge the sickness was upon him again, this time so vicious that it followed him down, even into unconsciousness. There was no thought left, nothing but the alien touch of it, poison, pure and dark. He was aware of pain, and nausea, heat that froze in his bones, and ice, green ice, that burned and scalded inside him, his whole self liquefying and everything that made him Fraser melting into nothing, but sting, and stink, and hurt.

By the time the pain was receding he could feel, already, that he was a long way away from his cabin. His eyes drifted half open, unfocussed. The sky was strange, even for the Arctic, and the light was... the light was... He closed his eyes. He could think about the light later. All he could think of was that the boy had let him go, had backed off, and with him the illness. Kryptonite, he thought, the boy said the illness was caused by Kryptonite. His thoughts gradually began to piece themselves back together, and he sat up slowly. Perhaps the lad had a splinter of Kryptonite in him, and didn't know it? “Clark,” he asked, hearing his voice faint, and echoing strangely. He didn't feel equipped yet to look around him, still shaken and weak. “Are you there?”

And the kid's voice bounced back from the walls he couldn't see. “Yes, I'm here. Are you okay?”

“Getting there. I take it we arrived?”

“Yes. This is the Fortress of Solitude.”

Fraser finally opened his eyes, and took a real look at his surroundings. His mouth dropped open, and he gasped. 

“This... this is beautiful.” The word didn't do it justice. It wasn't just beautiful. It was heart-rendingly so. It was as though the “fortress,” as Clark called it, was carved out of the purest and sweetest of crystals, something brighter than diamonds, something that shone with its own internal light. No, not carved, Fraser thought, but grown... an organic architecture, a living vibrant stone.

“Thank you,” Clark said, as though accepting praise for the wallpaper. “It's my father's.”

“I have to admit,” Fraser said wryly, “it beats a closet any day.” Although the brilliancy around him reminded him vividly of the moment his father had broken down his office wall, and the broader borderlands broke through for a dazzling snow drenched moment, revealing the world behind the skin of space and time. He thought of Narnia. Further up, and further in. All around him now was proof that the world was weirder, and more beautiful and strange than anyone could ever imagine. This, and any other world.

He blinked, pulled himself together, and got to his feet. He staggered slightly, but other than that momentary weakness felt strong again. “So... do I get to meet your father?”

“Not meet, exactly...” the kid looked confused. “It doesn't always work like that...”

A voice suddenly spoke, deep as a cloister bell, resounding from all directions at once. “Kal-El,” it said, “you have brought me our kindred. Thank you.”

“Kindred?” Fraser felt his heart sink. No, there was no way Clark... or 'Kal-El', or however he wanted to be addressed, no way that he could possibly be right. No. He wasn't an alien, he was Benton Fraser. No, no, this wasn't right. He was aware that he was shaking his head, involuntarily and convulsively. He forced himself to stop, and looked across at the figure of Clark, patiently standing at a safe distance from him. “No,” he insisted, with a touch of desperation, “I'm human, I'm not... I'm not Kryptonian, I was born here.”

“My father's never wrong,” Clark said. As desperate as Fraser was, the boy seemed correspondingly grateful.

“Well, on this occasion he is wrong.” Again, Fraser heard himself speaking abruptly, but he couldn't help himself. If this thing was true his whole life would fall apart. Everything would be unstitched, unravelled, and there would be no Benton any more. “My father was Robert Fraser, RCMP,” he said, with the devotion of a penitent at prayer. “My mother was Caroline, née Pinsent, a nurse. My paternal Grandparents were travelling librarians...”

“Travelling librarians?” Clark interrupted him, looking puzzled, and Fraser suddenly found himself laughing, with a touch of hysteria. That Clark thought his grandparents' profession was in any way strange was hilarious. Travelling librarians were probably the least peculiar thing about this whole peculiar case.

“Children,” the voice said, echoing around the gleaming chamber, “you are both right, and both wrong.”

“Yeah? How's that?” Clark sounded disappointed, and Fraser felt for him again. Whatever the kid's disembodied father was about to say, he thought it wasn't going to please either of them.

“Clark is correct that the meteor shower that surrounded your birth has significance, and that in a certain way you are a Son of Krypton. However, you are correct, in that you are indeed the son of Caroline and Robert Fraser. You are utterly human in your birth, and heritage.”

“How can I be a 'Son of Krypton' then?”

The voice continued, implacably, and Fraser saw the disappointment etching itself into the young man's face. “Many humans have been affected by Kryptonite, and for some it has delivered enhanced abilities and gifts, to others only a curse. But for you, the effects of the Kryptonite were enhanced, since its power was not diluted, nor divided up into many people, as it has been in more populated areas. All the energy of those crystals was absorbed into your own self, on the day of your birth, when you were most receptive to its power.”

“Is that why he's so...” Clark's voice faltered, “is that why he's like me? The Kryptonite made him like me?”

“Yes, my Son.”

“But he's not, is he... I mean, he's not Kryptonian. He's human.”

“Yes, Son.” 

“And... And I'm still alone.”

“I am with you, Son.”

“No you're not,” the boy said, bitterly, folding his arms around himself and looking at the floor. “You're here. You're always here, and even when I come, even when I want to see you, you don't always answer. I live my life and try to please you, but you're always out of reach. I might as well not be here... I had just thought...” he looked at Fraser, and pulled a face. “Hey, I'm sorry,” he spoke directly to Fraser, rather than his father. “I just thought I wasn't alone. That's all.”

“I'm sorry too,” Fraser said, and discovered that he meant it. Not that he had wished to be an alien, simply that it would have been nice to have enlarged his family a little. To have had a little brother. Life had become better over the years, since he had a sister, and later a nephew and nieces, since he had a beloved, and friends. There might be gaps between his seeing them, but they were always there, at the end of a phone line, and every year he organised his holidays around them... Ray Vecchio and their camping trip, Maggie and her young family at Christmas, and of course Ray, Ray Kowalski, making a clutter and a clatter of his cabin, burning breakfast on a remarkably regular basis, playing with the dogs, doing odd jobs for the neighbours, and still, despite years of failure, valiantly trying to teach him to dance 'less like a stick.' He found himself smiling, and realised the young American might misunderstand his happiness. He sighed. He wished he could think of some way to share it. 

“You do not have to remain alone,” the voice stated. “Your guest has a choice to make.”

“You mean Fraser? What choice?”

“Yes, what choice?” Fraser didn't like the sound of this.

The voice, though still resounding round the room, seemed somehow to focus itself more tightly on Fraser. It was an uncomfortable feeling, not unlike the nauseating rush of Clark's proximity. “Benton Fraser, you have the choice to accept the burden of your birthright, and become fully a Son of Krypton. I can purge you of your humanity, and make you truly Clark's brother, and truly my Son.”

“No.” He didn't have to think about it, the word just popped out, a monosyllabic full stop to the conversation.

“Fraser,” the kid said, “you've got to at least consider it... there are so many things you could do as a Kryptonian.”

“I don't have to do anything, I don't have to consider anything. I'm not interested.” He had to be as brutally honest as possible. Diplomacy or courtesy at this point could only give the boy false hope. Besides, truly, he wasn't interested. On this point, at least, he had no curiosity at all. Which in itself was curious. Normally he wanted to know as much as possible about everything. Regarding the alleged benefits of suddenly becoming an alien, however, he was completely uninterested.

“Father,” the boy addressed the imminence, or eminence in the room, “can you tell him? Can you make him understand?”

“If he does not wish to change, then I cannot make him.”

“But at least show him, show him what he's missing. Please?”

Oh, poor kid, Fraser thought, his heart filling with compassion as he heard the increasing desperation in the boy's voice. And he had thought that he had been a lonely young man. Imagine your whole world literally being destroyed, being literally an alien on a strange planet. Poor, poor kid. If he could have done anything else to oblige him he would have done... but not this. Before he could think of any way to express his sympathy to Clark though, his Father spoke again. “My Son, I will show him.”

“No,” Fraser cried out, but it was too late. The light in the crystal cavern began to change, to shiver and pulsate. Before he knew it images and noises and smell and touch and taste began to crowd into his mind, too fast, too full, too... too... too much. “Stop it,” he shouted above the din, “stop it, stop it...” He couldn't hear himself. His throat was raw, but they kept coming, and somehow he was lying on the floor again, clutching his head. By the time the flood of information had ceased he couldn't even speak.

“Fraser?” The boy's voice was a long way off. “Are you okay?”

He tried to move his lips, to make a sound. To think a thought. One word. To find one word. Nothing.

“Fraser?”

Nothing at all.


	7. choice

One of the first things Anne did on returning to the station was to phone up the Daily Planet, and ask if anyone knew what story Clark Kent was working on. The bored sounding secretary put her through to his partner, a Lois Lane. The name sounded familiar. For a moment she struggled to place it, then it clicked. The woman had won awards. If Kent was working with her then he was more high powered than he had appeared. The thought came back to her that this might have to do with the boss's undercover work. She felt her brow crease as she struggled to put the pieces together.

The woman's voice on the phone broke into her reverie. “This is Lois Lane of the Daily Planet. Who is this please?” 

“Constable Anne Moreau, of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

“A Mountie,” she sounded bemused and amused at the same time. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I'm phoning regarding a colleague of yours, a Clark Kent.”

On the other end of the line, over two and a half thousand miles away, there was a little gasp, and Anne suddenly knew, without the woman saying a word, that she cared for this Kent. “Is he... is he all right?”

“As far as we know,” she said gently, “at least he was the last time he was seen. He has disappeared. We thought he might be tracking a story.”

“I'm afraid I don't exactly know what story he is pursuing,” the reporter said, “I have checked through his files, and there's nothing that would bring him to Canada... where exactly are you in Canada?”

“We're in the Arctic Circle...”

“The Arctic Circle?” The incredulity in the other woman's voice rang out across the distance. “What the hell would he be doing up there?”

“That's what we called you about.” There was silence for a moment, then Anne continued. “That's not all. He would appear to have disappeared with our Sergeant.”

“Your Sergeant?” In the background Anne could hear frantic tapping. No doubt the woman was on the computer, trying to scrabble information together from the internet. “What's his name?”

“Sergeant Benton Fraser,” for a moment she felt dubious about sharing the information, then reasoned that a journalist might be able to find something, anything, that could help them track down the missing men.

“Benton... Oh, here... wow. He's quite the hero, isn't he?”

Impatiently Anne pushed ahead. “Whatever... but he's gone missing, and it's got something to do with your colleague. To be honest, first impressions are that Mr Kent has abducted him.”

A tight silence vibrated down the phone line, then Ms Lane started laughing. “You are joking, aren't you? Smallville wouldn't kidnap a goldfish.”

“Smallville?”

“Clark. He's just this sweet goofy farm boy, he's not some menacing kidnapper.”

Huh, that was interesting. “He didn't seem sweet or goofy to me,” she said, “he seemed rather intense. Worried about something...”

“Great,” Lois's laughter had stopped as quickly as it had started, and she was now all business. “What's the soonest I can get up to you?”

“You're coming here?”

“Yes, if anyone can sniff Clark out, it's me.” Ms Lane sounded brisk, but behind it Anne still felt the other woman's concern for Clark. She wondered did the woman know herself how she felt? In Anne's experience people were very good at hiding their feelings from each other, and themselves. Well, she'd meet the woman soon enough, be able to make a better assessment of the situation.  


“All right then,” Anne closed her eyes in resignation. Yet another American reporter, just what they needed. “I'll arrange the travel details. We'll get you here as quickly as possible.”  
…

Clark sat back on his haunches, and watched the Canadian from what seemed to be a safe distance. Whatever his father had done to him, he couldn't help. He knew that if he approached it would only make things worse. All he could do was wait.

Eventually the Mountie groaned, and started moving. 

“You all right?” He realised even as he spoke that he might have jumped in too soon. The other man was still not looking completely in possession of all his faculties. He sat up, and blinked owlishly, as though he couldn't quite see yet, then, disjointedly, began to speak.

“Everything, he didn't have to... you didn't have to... everything.”

“What do you mean, everything?” He couldn't help himself. Despite his guest's apparent confusion, Clark pushed for clarification. The other man looked at him, his eyes seeming to come back into focus.

“You're there. You're still there.”

“Of course I am. Where would I go?”

“I was gone... I was gone for years.” He shook his head heavily. 

“A few hours.” It had been most of a day, but the Mountie didn't have to know that yet.

“It felt... it felt longer. A lot longer.”

“I'm sorry...” Clark felt a heaviness sinking in his gut. He hadn't meant his father to do that. He had only wanted him to talk to the other man, not... what? What had he done? He hadn't meant for his father to just pour Krypton into his head. He knew himself how much that hurt. An almost overwhelming urge to go over to Fraser, to hug him swept upon him. He resisted it, knowing too well that such a gesture of friendship, of support, was impossible.

“I know...” Fraser's voice was coming stronger now. “I think I know everything. I think he showed me everything... everything he had.”

“So you know? You know what he's offering? What you could do as a Kryptonian, what we could do together? The good we could do?”

“Yes,” Fraser dropped the word like it was a stone, and let it sit there, a solid lump between the two men. 

Clark waited for a further response, torn between a feeling of almost wild hope, and a dread. The older man was not responding as he expected. To be offered such power, to be offered such an opportunity to do good, to be offered what amounted to endless youth and immortality... that would tempt most men. Not only that, but to save a culture... And he knew, from Fraser's records, that this was a man with an endless hunger for justice. They could do good... they could do good.

Yes, Clark admitted it, he was desperate, but he wasn't going to beg. He continued to sit on his haunches, made himself impassive, and waited.

His father spoke first. “And so, Benton Fraser, have you made your decision?”

“Yes,” Fraser spoke, “I've decided.”

“And what is your decision?”

“No.” He spoke with such clarity, such certainty that Clark at last gave up all hope. “No, I will not become a Kryptonian. I am, and I remain, a Child of Earth.”

“Your decision has been heard, and understood. You may now go.”

“Thank you.” The man got up, still slightly unsteady, and dusted down his clothes. He looked across at Clark, with sorrow, but said nothing. Clark stood up, returning the Mountie's gaze. 

“Give me a moment,” he said, and turned to face the wall. It hurt too much to be seen.


	8. friend

The moment when Clark's father left the chamber (Jor-El, the ghost of Krypton whispered in his head) was as palpable as a gust of wind. Fraser swayed with it, and felt the silence. What the kid must be going through, he could only imagine.

No, more than imagine... at the thought of the kid a flood of information came to mind... this time in a manageable manner. The information was already there, not being pumped into him against his will. All he had to do was remember.

And he remembered... remembered the flight through the stars, better perhaps than Clark could, remembered the childhood as though it was his own... the kindness of Martha and Jonathan Kent, the boy's breaking heart when this so human father died. All of the struggles, with school, with his powers, with other people with... Oh Lord. Fraser blinked back tears as though this was his own life. Lex. He remembered Lex. Alexander Luthor. The last man that Clark had hoped to be a brother for. And how alone he felt now, knowing that his friendship had been irrevocably betrayed. No wonder... no wonder the kid had reached out for him, reached out for someone. Anyone even. The kid was so damned lonely he'd have reached out for anyone.

But Fraser could not be the brother he needed. Not now, not ever. Nobody could.

“Clark,” he said, gently. The kid kept his back to him. “Kal-El,” he tried again. The kid moved, listening. “I'm sorry, but it wasn't a choice. I couldn't become what you wanted me to, and remain myself.”

“You could have done. You would have still fought evil, but you would have had more strength for the fight, you could have done more, defeated it more easily.”

“That's it though,” Fraser rubbed his eyebrow with his thumb, trying to find the words for what he needed to say. “Defeating evil... the way you do it. Every time you come upon it, you battle, you fight... but defeating evil isn't what I do at all.”

“What does that mean?” The kid turned round now, belligerently, but with his arms folded across his chest, defending his heart. “What do you mean you don't defeat evil? You're a Mountie, isn't that what you do?”

“Not in the way you mean...” Fraser looked up at the great vaulted roof, and huffed out a cloud of silver, which rose in twisting plumes, expanded and vanished into space. “I face evil. Not because I'm a Mountie, but because I'm human. We all face evil, every day.”

“But you fight it.”

“Perhaps. But... I'm sorry, Son, your Father showed me everything. I saw...” he looked down and sideways, ashamed and embarrassed. For himself, forced to be a peeping Tom of sorts, a spy, and for the boy, so exposed, betrayed even by his own Father. “I saw everything. I saw... Lex. I saw what happened with Lex.”

“Then, you know what I mean.” The bitterness of the boy's voice broke on Fraser like a wave crashing against a rock, and he flinched with it. Oh God, he thought again, poor kid.

“I know what you mean.” Fraser looked across at the young man, standing in his frosty glimmer. “And... I've seen evil. What it makes us do. All of us. Men, women and children. There is so much evil in the world.”

“So we have to fight it, we have to defeat it.”

“You mean, we have to save the world.”

“Yes,” the boy stepped forward, punctuating his affirmative by snapping a fist into the palm of his hand. “Yes, we have to save the world.”

Fraser sighed, and moved slightly away from the nausea that approached with the kid. He tried to be as subtle as he could, but the kid picked up on it, and stepped back, miserably. “Kal-El,” he continued, “I know what you think you are saving the world from, but... what are you saving it to?”

“I... I don't know what you mean?”

“I see you fighting, monsters, and aliens, and demons... whatever it is you think is your enemy. And... that's admirable. You're a good man. You're a credit to your parents... Martha and Jonathan,” he added quickly. “They raised you well. And they were right to be proud of you. But...” the words dried up. How on earth could he say this? For a moment he stalled, and Clark jumped in.

“But what? But nothing. You know the fight is necessary. You know we have to do the right thing.”

“Yes,” Fraser grasped onto the word, 'right'. “Yes, we 'maintain the right'. That's it. There's a difference between fighting evil, and 'maintaining the right.'”

“That sounds like you're quoting someone.”

“The Mountie motto,” he explained, “'maintain the right.' There is a huge difference between preserving and protecting what is good, and fighting evil.”

“There's no difference.”

Fraser gazed compassionately at the boy. Oh, he was young, for all that pain. He wondered how old the kid would feel one day, whether he would ever understand what he was trying to say. 

“I'll give you another quote then. 'When you gaze too long into the abyss, the abyss gazes also into you'.”

“Nietzsche,” the boy said. “'Be careful when you fight monsters, lest you become one.' Do you think I'm a monster?” 

“No,” despite himself Fraser took a step toward the kid, sucking in a deep breath to keep steady. Keep steady. He took another step, and stopped, shaking. “No, good Lord, no, you're not a monster.”

“Look at you. You can't come near me without feeling sick. You might say you don't think I'm a monster, but your body does.”

“Ah, that.” Fraser gave a tiny nod, as the memory came back to him. “Your Father explained that. We're like... we're like a magnet. Too similar to each other. And, because I am only human,” he smiled apologetically at the emphasis, “because I am only human, I can't take it. It's too much power for me, in one place.”

“So it's not me,” Clark tweaked a smile, “it's you.”

“Something like that.”

“So, if I'm not a monster, what the hell am I?”

“You are... you are yourself.”

“And what's that? Clark, or Kal-El?”

“Both, perhaps. But I can't say. You'll have to find out for yourself.”

“Alone.”

“Alone. We all discover ourselves alone. And then, maybe, if we're lucky, we can discover other people, let them in.” This, Fraser realised, was an unprecedented conversation for the young man, horribly uncomfortable. But the kid, having started, couldn't stop. He was pouring himself out, like a man haemorrhaging from the belly. Fraser grimaced, and took another painful step forward.

“I've tried to let people in, but they betray me,” Clark said, still hugging himself. Fraser ached at the gesture. He knew for a fact that Clark didn't feel the cold. 

“Son,” he corrected him as kindly as he could, “you've never let anyone in. You've always been so afraid... and I do understand that. I really do. But... did you ever think...” how could he say this without breaking the kid's heart? “Did you ever think that if you had been honest, told your truth to Lex at the beginning, he wouldn't have become so obsessed, he wouldn't have felt so betrayed?” Another long silence as Clark absorbed his words. “Perhaps he could have still been your friend.”

“No,” Clark shouted it out explosively, and turned, punched his fist into a crystal wall. The fortress trembled, and the kid pulled himself together, turned around to face Fraser again. “No,” he repeated. “There was a darkness in him, it was always there. He would have betrayed me, he would always have betrayed me.”

“Clark,” Fraser edged closer, “we all have darkness in us. But we all have... we all have light as well. We're a tangle, all of us. That's why...” he paused, and organised the words, “that's why I don't want to destroy evil. I don't want to defeat it. I want to understand it, and let it go. Because... because we can't save the world.”

“You mean we're doomed? We're already defeated?”

“No.” Fraser smiled, as he realised the truth of what he was saying. “No, we're not defeated. We're already saved.”

Clark stared at him, uncomprehendingly, and shook his head. “But you could... you could 'maintain the right' for so much longer. Centuries even, millenia.”

“No. There's a time to every purpose, and I'm here, now, in my space and time, with the people I love, in the land I love, and I'm happy here. I do what I have to do. I see evil, but do you know,” he caught the boy's gaze, and held it. This was truly true. “In all my life, I've never met an evil person.”

“Of course you have,” Clark was shaking his head. “We all have.”

“I've seen people so eaten up with evil that you can't see the light in them any more. I've even loved one. But...” he sighed again, and closed his eyes. “Another quote for you. 'Every man has his secret sorrows, which the world knows not, and often times we call a man cold, when he is merely sad.'” Silence. “Son...” he said, gently, “there's nothing so bad that it can't be forgiven.”

“You mean,” the kid covered his eyes with his hand. “You mean Lex was my fault?”

“No. No... perhaps things could have been different, who knows? But you can only ever do what you can. Perhaps you'll learn from it.” He smiled again. “Lois,” he said. “You could start with Lois. Trust her.”

The kid looked up again. “What if she... what if she thinks I'm a monster?”

“She won't.” Fraser was sure of that. “She won't.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“Perhaps you will, one day.”

“And you're sure, you're absolutely sure that you won't join me? Perhaps my Father might change his mind, if you let me explain to him...”

“No. No, I won't change my mind.”

“Not even to save the world?” Clark tried for a smile, and it looked even sadder on his face than tears would have done.

“The world will keep on turning, with or without me. And one day, it will come to an end. Everything. Nothing is permanent, my father once told me. It will all vanish, but... it will be saved all the same. Nothing is permanent, but nothing is ever forgotten. It will be okay, Son. Everything, in the end, will be well.”

“I really don't understand you.” 

“I know,” Fraser heard himself laugh, oddly in the echoing chamber. “I sound like a fortune cooky, don't I?”

Finally the boy gave a real smile. “I don't know. But you do sound like a friend.”

Fraser took a deep breath, and holding it forced himself to step through the nausea and pain. He closed the gap rapidly between himself and Clark, before collapse could set in. Freezing his face against an involuntary grimace he put his arms around the kid and hugged him. It was a convulsive shudder of a hug, but the best that he could do. “Friend,” he gasped, before the livid darkness swallowed him down.


	9. light

It was a strange thing, Kal-El thought, that of all the people he had ever known, human and inhuman, it was Benton Fraser who came to mind at the end. It had been more millenia, more millions of years than he could count, and the lives of those he had known and loved had blinked past him with increasing rapidity and pain, tiny flashes of light, swallowed up, one by one, into darkness. Thinking of Fraser, struggling to stand in that embrace, he thought of Lois, arriving at an airstrip, clattering and loud, asking him what the hell was going on. He could barely remember now the aftermath, the explanations as to how he and Fraser had ended up missing, how Fraser was so sick. The jagged angry energy of... what had he been called? Ray, the look on Ray's face as he turned up to thump the head of anyone who had hurt his friend. And Fraser's gentleness as he smoothed things over, got him off the hook... he couldn't even remember how. He remembered that he had gone home with Lois, and that he had loved her so much, so very much. He could remember her voice, but somehow, and he didn't know when it had begun, he had trouble remembering her face. Perhaps it was because he had seen her through all her years, from the beauty of her youth to the beauty of her extreme old age. And those faces of Lois blurred into one, dissolved into time, and she was vanished from his sight. He couldn't see her, even in dreams. But her voice... that remained. It didn't even hurt him any more.

Such little, such tiny, such precious lives. Lovely, iridescent, gone.

And now it was his turn, at last. He was sitting here, on the last little pebble of recorded space and time, waiting for the end, for his end... and it wasn't a fearful thing. It was beautiful. Finally, he would tread the path that all nature had trod before him. Finally it would snap tight, the universe contracting into the nothingness from which it began. The sky would roll up like a scroll, and at last... at last he would see the World behind the worlds.

He smiled. As the moment came, he smiled. All darkness flooded out, and all light blazed in.

Fraser had been right all along.

**Author's Note:**

> Yet another one which my son asked for. It appears that he was not satisfied with X-men, he wanted a Superman crossover. And I was happy enough to oblige, but it took a completely weird and wonderful turn, and ended up not at all as I'd expected it. Now that I've finished, I'm sure that he's going to be after me for not just Superman, but Lord of the Rings, the Fantastic Four, the Avenger's, anything by Anthony Horrowitz (except for Midsommer Murders) and Young Bond crossovers. 
> 
> So, I may have to kill somebody. Or alternatively, keep on writing.


End file.
